Peeta Mellark Love Story
by BTRxWorldwide
Summary: Set in the first book, The Hunger Games. Follow Katniss' thoughts of the sandy blonde haired Career, Amain Mitchell and her feelings towards Peeta.
1. Info

All rights go to Suzanne Collins for the storyline and characters and such for The Hunger Games. I only own the OC.

Amain Micthell is a sandy curly blonde haired, 16-year-old girl from District 1 (Glimmer moved to District 4) who is very shy and timid but can be easily enraged. She feels as though she doesn't belong in the world of Panem and has no memory beside the last few months. Amain is much fitter and healthier than everyone else, having a normal body mass. She is quickly drawn to Peeta as is he from the very moment they meet.

The journey is set in The Hunger Games book and follows Katniss' thoughts and feelings on Amain, especially her hatred and distrust for the Career.

Peeta Mellark love story.


	2. Chapter 1: Noticing Her

When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can't help flitting around to the other tributes. It's the first time we've been assembled, on level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family's resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I'm thin, I'm strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me. Except for one. A girl from District 1. Luxury. One would assume she came from the Capitol for her body mass and height are very healthy. Very well fed but not overdone and quite fit by the looks of it. Shiny dark golden hair tied into a pony tail down her back, bright eyes and such an innocence about her that she couldn't have been born and raised like the rest of us. This tribute practically radiates insecurity, timidity, and awkwardness. I can see it. The way she stands, the way she holds herself. The terrified look behind her eyes. Something's not right about her. Even for a Career.

Careers are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this look about them. It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. But not that one girl. When Atala releases us, the others head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease. For some odd reason though, the tall blonde girl stands by herself and gains as much distance from the rest as possible. She simply walks to an unoccupied station across the room. The others watch her, intrigued why she hasn't joined them. The boy tribute from District 1, her partner, talks to them. Soon after, the group laughs and continues with their weapons showing their brute strength. This girl must be below them in some way. Once again, strange for a Career. Usually they are all the same; brutal, fierce, strong and deadly to be around. I'll have to keep my eye on her.

I'm thinking that it's lucky I'm a fast runner when Peeta nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per Haymitch's instructions. His expression is sober.

"Where would you like to start?"

I look around at the pack of Career Tributes who are showing off, clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax. The bizarre girl looks lost but decides a different station with no one present when someone attended hers. Mustn't like company. I can relate.

"Suppose we tie some knots," I say.

"Right you are," says Peeta. We cross to the station to join the peculiar girl. The trainer seems pleased to have students greater than one. You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Hunger games hot spot. When the girl realizes our presence she freezes and looks about the room quickly. Must be trying to find another escape. I don't understand why she would. Does she find us intimidating? I sincerely doubt that's possible. We've got nothing compared to the Careers. Even so, her frantic state continues quietly which gets on my nerves. What kind of a strategy is this?

Seeing there are no vacant stations the girl stays and silently continues with her knot. Peter and I sit and listen to the trainer. When he realizes I know something about snares, he shows us all a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree. We concentrate on this one skill for an hour until both of us have mastered it. The tribute I've concluded to be about my age had mastered the skill about a half hour before. She's a fast learner and this somehow bothers me. Everything about this tribute does, which is ridicules. Once an empty station became available the girl was all too happy to join. This is when Peter and I move to camouflage. I didn't miss the glance Peter sent her way but I quickly dismiss it as we begin the lesson. Peeta genuinely seems to enjoy this station, swirling a combination of mud and clay and berry juices around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from vines and leaves. The trainer who runs the camouflage station is full of enthusiasm at his work.

"I do the cakes," he admits to me.

"The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?"

"At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says.

I look more critically at the design on Peeta's arm. The alternating pattern of light and dark suggests sunlight falling through the leaves in the woods. I wonder how he knows this, since I doubt he's ever been beyond the fence. Has he been able to pick this up from just that scraggly old apple tree in his backyard? Somehow the whole thing — his skill, those inaccessible cakes, the praise of the  
camouflage expert — annoys me.

"It's lovely. If only you could frost someone to death," I say.

"Don't be so superior. You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's  
actually a gigantic cake —" begins Peeta.

"Say we move on," I break in.

We do. Peter and I work until a small cry of a child distracts us. It came from the District 4 Tribute who looks only about twelve. He is being bullied by the bigger, older Careers. It's only verbal abuse, though. Nothing serious. The trainers dismiss this action, not caring. Neither do I. My attention averts back to attempting the memory exercise.

"Look over there," Peter says.

Annoyed I do, following Peter's gaze. I see the Tribute 1 girl, failing to throw a knife into a dummy some yards away. It only sinks in slightly then falls back out. This happens continuously which I find ridiculous. Younger tributes are more skilled than her in not just weapons but other stations as well. I see why the other Careers were laughing. She is weak compared to them. I soon turn back.

"No, keep watching," Peter pushes.

I don't understand Peter's interest in her but look back once he nudges me sharply. The girl walks away from the station after the Careers laugh at her. I can see the hurt expression and I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. But I've learnt that in a game like this, no one is to be trusted. Especially a Career. Everything is an act or trick to try and win. She's most likely faking, appearing fragile in front of others so she can be overlooked once the Game begins. Then she'd viciously strike with force. I saw that tactic in previous years. It was very successful.

The Careers continue tormenting the boy who seems like he's about to cry. This only encourages them. I turn to Peter, confused to why I have to watch this. It's not uncommon for a Career to torment another. In their minds it makes the victim stronger, tougher.

"She's getting pretty mad." He says, not looking at me.

Across the room is the frail Career girl who, is in fact, looking mad. Very mad. She's actually shaking of anger. It's hard to notice from such a distance but it's there. I've seen people get that angry on rare occasions. It's such a strong impulse that takes over any logic or reason, resulting in an act that can never be undone. Such passion does occur. Right before they kill someone.

She makes her way back to the knife throwing station, a murderous look on her face, and picks one up. Why hasn't anyone stopped her? Don't any rules apply to Careers? She's going to kill somebody before the Game has started! Out of the corner of my sight, the Careers are tuned in as well, amused, as the boy cries. I watch now, unable to focus on anything else.

Blink and you would have missed it. I didn't even see the knife leave her hand. What brought me to my senses was the loud pound of the knife impacting on the dummy. It's lodged so deep that the blade is no longer seen, only the handle itself. I didn't think it was possible at such a distance like that. Moments before, she couldn't even get the knife to stick! But look now; blade unseen, dummy rocking and impressed stares all around. Amazing what raw anger can do. The Careers grin, (however the biggest one holding a double meaning behind it), then leaves the boy alone. I don't think the girl is seen inferior to them anymore. She decides to leave the training grounds quickly, probably not to draw any more attention to herself. As the door behind her closes the dummy splits in half.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice. Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. Like the Career girl with anger issues. The others try to convince her to join their group. For some reason she refuses. The biggest of the Careers, the one from District 2, persistently tries to sway her the most. She must be valuable to him. No one says a word to us. Peeta and I eat together, and since Haymitch keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation during the meals.

"And there you have it," says Peeta, scooping the breads back in the basket.

"You certainly know a lot," I say.

"Only about bread," he says. "Okay, now laugh as if I've said something funny."

We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore the stares from around the room.

"All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk," says Peeta. It's wearing us both out, Haymitch's direction to be friendly. Because ever since I slammed my door, there's been a chill in the air between us. But we have our orders.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" I ask.

"No, but it sounds fascinating," says Peeta.

Peeta laughs and asks questions right on cue after I tell my story. He's much better at this than I am.

On the second day, while we're taking a shot at spear throwing, he whispers to me. "I think we have a shadow."

I throw my spear, which I'm not too bad at actually, if I don't have to throw too far, and see the little girl from District 11 standing back a bit, watching us. She's the twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me so much of Prim in stature. Up close she looks about ten. She has bright, dark, eyes and satiny brown skin and stands tilted up on her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take  
wing at the slightest sound. It's impossible not to think of a bird. I pick up another spear while Peeta throws. "I think her name's Rue," he says softly.

I bite my lip. Rue is a small yellow flower that grows in the Meadow. Rue. Primrose. Neither of them could tip the scale at seventy pounds soaking wet.

"What can we do about it?" I ask him, more harshly than I intended.

"Nothing to do," he says back. "Just making conversation."

Now that I know she's there, it's hard to ignore the child. She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, she's clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. She can hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot against a 220-pound male with a sword?

The timid blonde Career quietly continues her routine of isolating herself. She tries her best not to stand out like before. I can tell she's holding back, and so can the others. They always talk to her, sometimes even yell after having lost patience. But she still denies joining and even simply speaking to them. The "insecurity" and "fear" of being around the others takes over. Actually, I doubt anyone has heard her voice besides her mentor. That is, if her act continues behind closed doors, away from the eyes and ears of fellow tributes. Peter still glances at her every now and then. I now understand why. With her long hair with soft flowing curls falling down her back nicely, matching not too pale skin, making green with blue smudged around the edge eyes stand out. This all proportions with a taller than every girl, well fed and fit frame which immediately ensures she pops out against the rest of us. Overall she looks quite pretty compared to the other girls. A very light blonde haired Career Tribute from District 4 isn't too thrilled about this. It's never a good thing to get on a Careers bad side, even if you are one of them. So easily they can turn. Especially in this game.


	3. Chapter 2: Show Time

Since the training isn't open to viewers, the Gamemakers announce a score for each player. It gives the audience a starting place for the betting that will continue throughout the Games. The number, which is between one and twelve, one being irredeemably bad and twelve being unattainably high, signifies the

promise of the tribute. The mark is not a guarantee of which person will win. It's only an indication of the potential a tribute showed in training. Often, because of the variables in the actual arena, high scoring tributes go down almost immediately. And a few years ago, the boy who won the Games only

received a three. Still, the scores can help or hurt an individual tribute in terms of sponsorship. I had been hoping my shooting skills might get me a six or a seven, even if I'm not particularly powerful.

After dinner, we go to sitting room to watch the scores announced on television. First they show a photo of the tribute, then flash their score below it. First is District 1 Boy Tribute then the unusual girl. She scores a four. The Career Tributes naturally get in the eight-to-ten range so this comes as a surprise. All part of her strategy no doubt. Appear delicate, others might have mercy. I'm not falling for it. She is a Career. No amount of pity or acting can change that. She is a killer, just like the rest of them.

Most of the other players average a five. Surprisingly, little Rue comes up with a seven. District 12 comes up last, as usual. Peeta pulls an eight so at least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been watching him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my face comes up, expecting the worst. Then they're flashing the number eleven on the screen.

Eleven!

-

At dawn, I lie in bed for a while, watching the sun come up on a beautiful morning. It's Sunday. A day off at home. I wonder if Gale is in the woods yet. Usually we devote all of Sunday to stocking up for the week. Rising early, hunting and gathering, then trading at the Hob. I think of Gale without me. Both of us can hunt alone, but we're better as a pair. But also in the little things, having a partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous task of filling my family's table enjoyable.

Gale gave me a sense of security I'd lacked since my father's death. His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better hunter when I didn't have to look over my shoulder constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He became my confidante, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy.

I call him my friend, but in the last year it's seemed too casual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now! But, of course, I don't want that. I don't want him in the arena where he'd be dead in a few days. I just . . . I just miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me? He must.

I can't help comparing what I have with Gale to what I'm pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question Gale's motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter's. It's not a fair comparison really. Gale and I were thrown together by a mutual need to survive. Peeta and I know the other's survival means our own death. How do you sidestep that?

Effie's knocking at the door, reminding me there's another "big, big, big day!" ahead. Tomorrow night will be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will have their hands full readying us for that.

I get up and take a quick shower and head down to the dining room. Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my plate with breakfast before I join them. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's  
going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," says Haymitch.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and chat at the same time," I  
say.

"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says  
Haymitch.

"What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember.

Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to have been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills…was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him?

On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta's decision — and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training — I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.

"Good," I say. "So what's the schedule?"

"Today you'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," says Haymitch. "You start with Effie, Katniss."

I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then taking out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room.

In the morning, it's not the girl but my prep team who are hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth.

Too soon it's time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I'm in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.

As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. "Cinna . . ." I'm completely overcome with stage fright.

"Remember, they already love you," he says gently. "Just be yourself." We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically.  
When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews.

Right before we parade onto the stage, Haymitch comes up behind Peeta and me and growls, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it."

-

Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the interviews for more than forty years, bounces onto the stage. It's a little scary because his appearance has been virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyes a different color for each Hunger Games.

Same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars. They do surgery in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. In District 12, looking old is something of an achievement since so many people die early. You see an elderly person you want to  
congratulate them on their longevity, ask the secret of survival. A plump person is envied because they aren't scraping by like the majority of us. But here it is different. Wrinkles aren't desirable. A round belly isn't a sign of success. This year, Caesar's hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in  
the same hue. He tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business.

The girl tribute from District 1,looking beautiful in a flowing sea-green gown, nervously steps up the center of the stage to join Caesar for her interview. You can tell the angle her mentor chose. With that well fitted but not tight dress, showing some exposed skin and flaunting in all the right places however to a graceful degree…she's elegant yet cautious in the outfit of choice. Nothing like her personality but reflects what her title of a Career holds. This message suggests that this tribute will always keep you guessing. Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. I'll say this for Caesar, he really does his best to make the tributes shine. He's friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle. The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless killing machine. The lush girl from District 4 is sexy all the way. The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive. I spotted Cinna as soon as he took his place, but even his presence cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled dress isn't absorbent and they skid right off if I try to dry them. 11.

And then they're calling Katniss Everdeen, and I feel myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage. I shake Caesar's outstretched hand, and he has the good grace not to immediately wipe his off on his suit.

My interview runs quiet smoothly thanks to Caesar, I even get laughs from the audience myself. At one point, I twirl around making my dress look like flames engulf me. I even giggle which I never do. After that I'm asked about my score however I can't say much. My interview continues then Caesar asks about Prim. I said I'd win for her when the buzzer goes off. "Sorry we're out of time. Best of luck, Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve." The applause continues long after I'm seated. I look to Cinna for

reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home.

Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly.

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning…won't help in my case," says Peeta.

"Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified.

Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because…because…She came here with me."


	4. Chapter 3: Love At First Sight?

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries.

"It's not good," agrees Peeta.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now."

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Centre lobby and onto the elevators. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn which tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands.

"What was that for?" he says, aghast.

"You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him. Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia.

"What's going on?" says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up. Haymitch turns on me. "Shoved him?"

"This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" I answer.

"It was my idea," says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Haymitch just helped me with it."

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" I say.

"You are a fool," Haymitch says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!" I say.

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch.

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" I say.

Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?" The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head.

Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Katniss."

I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid."

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend," says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn.

My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Whatever," says Peeta. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?"

I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling dress. Giggling. But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we're in love...I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly.

"After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush." They others chime in, agreeing.

"You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Haymitch.

I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

"Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal."

"Are your hands okay?" I ask. "They'll be all right," he says.

In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft in from the dining room. "Come on, let's eat," says Haymitch. We all follow him to the table and take our places. I can't help feeling guilty about Peeta's hands. Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?

"Any final words of advice?" asks Peeta the next day.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. Neither of you are up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water," Haymitch says. "Got it?"

"And after that?" I ask.

"Stay alive," says Haymitch. It's the same advice he gave us on the train, but he's not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say? When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I'm glad.

When in my room I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It takes me about five seconds to realize I'll never fall asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death. It's no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids refuse to get heavy. I can't stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain I'll be thrown into. What will the climate be like? What traps have the Gamemakers hidden to liven up the slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes...

My room feels like a prison cell. If I don't get air soon, I'm going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall to the door to the roof. The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel reach its tiled surface I see his silhouette. I could slip away now, without him noticing me. But the night air's so sweet, I can't bear returning to that stuffy cage of a room. And what difference does it make? Whether we speak or not?

My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I'm only yard behind him when I say, "You should be getting some sleep."

He starts but doesn't turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. "Couldn't sleep, either?"

"Couldn't turn my mind off," I say.

"Thinking about your family?" he asks.

"No," I admit a bit guiltily. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands."

"It doesn't matter, Katniss," he says. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."

"That's no way to be thinking," I say.

"Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and . . ." He hesitates.

"And what?" I say.

"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only...I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."

I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask.

"No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to...to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Peeta.

"But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work."

"Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," he insists.

"Don't you see?"

"A little. Only...no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" I say.

"I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer. I take a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive."

Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. "Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart."

It's like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch's patronizing endearment.

"Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve."

"Wouldn't surprise me if you do," says Peeta. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morning. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them.

**PEETA'S POV**

Katniss doesn't understand what I mean. I kind of doubt she ever will. Although I think sounding like Haymitch may have infuriated her. Guess I deserve it in a way. But it's peaceful up here alone, enjoying the sights and sounds one last time. Not for long though, because I hear the door creak open. Thinking it's Katniss I don't bother turning but the sound of shuffling feet confuses me. Katniss never shuffles or even stumbles on even ground so I know this person is not her. Curious I turn my head slightly but not enough to make it obvious. I can't see who it is but I can tell the person hasn't moved because if I listen closely, I can only hear heavy breathing. It's a girl, I know that much. I turn my head back towards the city but catch a glimpse of the figures reflection in a window.

It's Amain Mitchell. She's the stunning girl tribute from District 1. A Career but doesn't act like one. She's different to not only them but the way a "normal" tribute is. She's kind and gentle and doesn't seem to want to brutally kill...even though she could if pushed. I've seen how she is, even watching her while no one notices. I'm aware I shouldn't considering my feelings for Katniss. However, I can't help but look.

She's frozen in place and staring at me, my back still facing her. Her deep blue-green eyes wide, almost panicked, I think. She doesn't like being around other tributes, including me. This fact doesn't sit well. Amain suddenly snaps out of her state and begins to retreat, probably hoping I haven't noticed her. She couldn't be more wrong.

I face her fleeing form and decide to speak. "You don't have to leave because I'm here," I say softly, trying not to scare her off. Her expression is stunned as she whips her head to me, her hand still pulling the door slightly. Then it happened.

Our eyes meet and suddenly I forget where I am. Why I'm there. Even the sounds around me become hazy as we stare. Never have I felt this bond. It's intense but welcoming as my heart beats quickly and my breathing becomes a shallow rhythm, matching hers. I can't pull myself to look away, but yet, I don't want to. This feels right and safe. All my worries seem to disappear by simply looking at this girl. As quickly as it came, the connection breaks when Amain looks down, shaking.

"You seemed to be enjoying your time alone so I think I should go," her hair covered her face as she spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. I smile at her shyness. It's a rare trait to come across in these times.

"What if I don't want to be alone?"

Her gaze is questioning, puzzled even yet still awkward and timid as I smile in encouragement. I don't want her to leave. Being with her, it feels like nothing else matters. I should be slightly concerned at how strong my feelings towards Amain are, knowing that this is the first time I've ever talked to her, even really met her. But right here, right now, I could care less. She cautiously leans forward, unsure about staying and still rests her hand on the door's handle.

"It's nice to have company once in a while. You never know, maybe we could even become _acquaintances._" My brain doesn't seem to want to work properly. That seriously lame joke is beyond terrible and I can't believe I said it. But somehow it works for a sweet laugh reaches my ears. It's short but it's enough to give me hope. Hope that she'll stay.

"I guess I could join you for a little while."

She slowly makes her way to where I stand. Thankfully she didn't see the goofy smile spread across my lips. Amain awkwardly leans on the rail as I do, but keeping as much distance from our body's as possible. The lights from below illuminates her features, making a blush become evident. Her hands clench tightly onto the rails, clearly showing how tense she is being in my company. I don't want her to feel this way about me so I decide to make small talk as the silence between us continues.

"How are you enjoying the food? In my opinion the bread could be a little better,"

Once again, horrible attempt at humour but another laugh staggers from her. This time longer. I can feel myself getting faintly dizzy at the sound.

"The food's great, best thing I've ever had since I can remember."

"And how long is that?" I ask playfully, turning to her.

"Five months."

The alarming look is immediate on her face as is the confusion on mine. Amain turns her gaze down, ashamed but chuckles in a troublesome tone. Shy eyes meet mine again.

"I've never told anyone before but . . . I don't know my past. Sometimes I have flashes, which seem like a faded dream or something except I know it had to have been real. For example, in one case I saw a muddle of things all squished together, all hazy, which is what dreams are like and such. But I felt like my breath was being restricted, everything was feeling stone cold, as if I was lying on ice and the intense raw pain of chains stopping me from moving or screaming are extremely clear . . . it ended with the throbbing of something piercing my skin all over my body." I listen silently, hung on every word Amain says. She breathes in then quickly looks away.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, don't know why I did. There's just something about you. For some odd reason, I'm completely comfortable with you. I feel like I can say anything to you and won't be judged . . . It's strange how easily I trust you."

A small blush forms on her cheeks. She's said too much.

"You t-trust me?" I stutter, truly puzzled by her words. How could she? We've never spoken. I thought she never knew I existed until tonight.

"Y-yes. And yet, I don't even know your name."

"Peeta! Uh, Peeta Mellark. And you're Amain Mitchell."

The look on her face makes me regret ever speaking.

"I know most of the tributes names, so please don't be creeped out!"

If this girl continues laughing I think I might faint. I'm getting quite light headed. It's a real, hearty, loud laugh that I won't be able to get enough of. It makes me truly smile.

"I've never heard someone laugh like that," I say in awe once Amain has recovered from her laughing fit. Her next words flow quickly, like she doesn't think before she speaks. It just comes out.

"Nobody has. It's seems that no one is truly happy, like no moment in their life will ever be powerfully joyful or funny or special even just for a split second to cause such laughter. I think, the desire to survive in a world that's deprived them of such emotions has drained the very qualities that make us human. How can you live without a time of such laughter if for only a few moments?"

Her words sink in as I process them. How do people of the twelve Districts live through each day without laughter or fun? The way Amain does, that is. I picture a world that she might see, or hope for. A world where there are no Games or horrific deaths. Instead happiness and love. Laughter. The way she does. This heavenly place would be a blessing. But how is that this hell, this reality, hasn't affected her so? Surely living here, even for such a short time, could have done something? It doesn't seem so. I wonder what her life was like before she came here. To the Capitol . . . and the Games . . .

"I'm sorry for saying that, it just came out. Around you Peeta, I'm different. Safe, almost, which is strange. Everything I say comes straight from my head with you. I'm never like that around others."

"What do you mean?" Sure she never speaks around fellow tributes but I doubt I can affect her so.

"Can't you tell? Have you seen the way I am around the other people?"

Yes. Too often, actually. It is so hard to pull away at times. I'm surprised I can at all, really. I laugh at her question, making her smile. My stomach flutters seeing it. That is something I definitely want to see more often.

"But in the end, I'm too different from everyone else. Inside, I know I don't belong in this world. I'm meant to be somewhere else. And yet, here I am. So, in a sense, what is my purpose if I'm not meant to be?"

I think hard, trying to understand what Amain is conveying. She believes her being isn't in this place, this planet. It's as if she has been plucked from another and sent to this one for a reason she can't comprehend.

"Maybe you're here to change something."

The statement hangs in the air and silence engulfs us as she processes my words. I take this chance to gaze at her while her mind is elsewhere. Amain's posture is much more comfortable now, her elbows resting on the cold metal with fingers lightly twined over the edge. It's amazing how someone so beautiful inside and out can become innocent and timid, resembling a small child. At times it's very difficult to not wrap my arms around her and repeat how I would forever protect and keep her safe.

"Maybe so, but it's hard sometimes to think like that . . ." I'm still watching Amain as a small chuckle escapes her.

"What?"

"Oh I was thinking how much some people hate me. But I don't care what they think. Hey I'm going to die tomorrow, may as well have fun before I do."

This infuriates me to no end. Surely she must be joking. I face her to see the girl staring at the party below. Her expression holds a small smile to lightly show her humour towards her words. However, she's not being funny. Those soulful blue-green eyes are serious. Scared endlessly.

"How could you say that! You posses skill and strategy and a fire that no one else has! You could win this with your eyes closed!"

"Yeah and that _fire _could get someone killed!"

"That's the whole point!"

"I will never kill anyone!"

What? Amain is probably the best contender to win this Game. Sure she's fragile and scared but the Hunger Games is known to change people, even after they've played. I'm sure when push comes to shove, she'll have to do it.

"Amain, when the time comes you will have to, it's how you survive."

She turns to me and pulls my body to face hers. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arms but she still holds on. The intensity in her eyes is unmistakeable as she speaks. "How could I live my life knowing I ended someone else's?"

Such sadness in her voice. With that, Amain lowers her hands but we still stay in position, our body's only slightly a part. The pain she feels can't be expressed in words. I want to hug her, make it all go away, make her feel happy again.

"No matter what, I won't take a life. Even if that means mine _is_. I'm not changing because the Game forces me to. I won't be a part of it."

"Like, if you are going to die, you want to be yourself," I say, finishing for her.

"Exactly."

She gets it. I know how she feels and we share the same views. We don't want to be turned into a monster. We don't want to be a piece in this Game. I can tell Amain truly understands because I can see it in her eyes. Those breath taking orbs that I can't pull away from. The forceful bond returns and the symptoms pick up again, but this time stronger. It's amazing how she makes me feel, almost like I'm soaring or flying. Probably am because I think I've stopped breathing, looks like she has, too. An invisible pull seems to happen between us, like we have to be closer. I don't object.

A sound below snaps us out of our trance and a fiery blush appears on our faces. We slowly pull away, gaining more distance between our breathless forms. No words are spoken however my eyes meet hers now and then. A smile traces her lips but she tries to hide it. This makes me grin.

"I think I should go now. Need sleep and all. See you tomorrow,"

Amain looks down as she walks off but I didn't miss the huge smile on her face. My body shifts to face her when she speaks again. The words that followed make my head spin.

"It was wonderful talking to you Peeta. You're the only person that's made me feel like I belong. I sincerely hope that we see each other soon."

The walk to my room is a complete blur. I don't even remember leaving the roof. My mind can focus on one thing and one thing only. Amain. The feelings I have for her seem so fierce but in a good way. All I can remember in this state is her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her words...

"Hey Peeta, care to talk?"

Haymitch crushes my dream-like state and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me away from my open door. How did I get this far? What I do know is the tight grip Haymitch holds on me creating a very uncomfortable feeling. This mustn't be good news.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask carefully.

"Just wanted to remind you to get plenty of rest. It's a big day tomorrow and we don't want a sleep-deprived tribute running about. Easy target. First to get killed. Wouldn't want that now

would we?"

The Games. How could I forget? Haymitch releases his arm and begins to stumble down the corridor leaving me to come to a devastating conclusion.

"Oh and don't go forgetting about Katniss now. She _is _the girl you love after all. Goodnight Peeta."

Katniss. The girl I_ love._ The word repeats in my head. How can I face her after this? The time I've spent with Amain has been more special and mind blowing than the moments I've shared with her. But she's the one I've confessed to loving and do, in fact. At least, I think. It's all so confusing now, having talked to Amain. Such powerful and inviting feelings are so welcoming and warming. But I know I can't continue feeling like this. I've made public my affections for Katniss. She's the one I have chosen. I can't go back on that. She means too much to me already. But, Amain lingers in my mind as I fall into a dreamless sleep.

**KATNISS' POV**

I don't see Peeta in the morning. Cinna comes to me before dawn, gives me a simple shift to wear, and guides me to the roof. My final dressing and preparations will be alone in the catacombs under the arena itself. A hovercraft appears out of thin air and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while I'm lifted safely inside.

I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth after arriving to our destination then lead underground. Cinna does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every tribute. "The material in the jacket's designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights," he says. The boots, worn over skin tight socks, are better than I could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. Good for running.

I think I'm finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.

"Where did you get that?" I ask.

"Off the green outfit you wore on the train. It's your district token, right?" I nod and he fastens it on my shirt. "It barely cleared the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it through," says Cinna. "They eliminated a ring from that District Four girl, though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She  
claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you're all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable."

I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. "Yes, it's fine. Fits perfectly."

"Then there's nothing to do but wait for the call," says Cinna. "Unless you think you could eat any more?"

I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait on a couch. Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. "Do you want to talk, Katniss?" Cinna asks.

I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch.

Still clenching one of Cinna's hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. "Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow," he says. I nod. "And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."

"Truly?" I whisper.

"Truly," says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire." And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. The cylinder begins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I'm in darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing  
me out of the cylinder, into the open air. I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith, as his voice booms all around me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"


End file.
